


It Becomes You

by ChaoticBlades



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mind Sex, Multi, Other, Oviposition, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, mentions of torture, trans author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticBlades/pseuds/ChaoticBlades
Summary: Jon gets marked by the Entities in unexpected ways.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jane Prentiss/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: Rusty Kink





	1. The Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt:
> 
> I'm sure someone has requested something like this before but I can't be bothered to go check so here goes. AU where instead of being hurt or terrified by the Fears, Jon has to be fucked by them. Encounters and levels of consent mirror canon interactions.
> 
> Bonus:  
> -Trans Jon
> 
> DNW:  
> -Underage. Please make his encounter with Mr Spider happen later in his life  
> -Scat or watersports

**It Knows You**

When first Jon stepped over the threshold, clothed in the nicest three-piece suit a postgraduate could rent, he attributed the feeling of being watched to nerves.

Now, pinned by the eyes of Jonah Magnus, he wondered if there wasn't perhaps something more to it. If a book could nearly send him to his death, why not a painting that followed his every move? The thought curdled in the dregs of his old fear.

And yet... he could hardly leave it at that, could he? Particularly if he was to work for the Magnus Institute, where he'd be greeted by a statue of the founder every day.

Jon glanced at his phone. He'd arrived well ahead of his scheduled interview.

With a steadying exhale—more of huff, if he was honest—he rose, crossing the waiting area until he could properly view the floor-to-ceiling portrait.

Jonah Magnus held a book in one hand, the other curled into a beckoning gesture. His unfathomable smile and hooded eyes were lovingly rendered in oil, so much so that he could discern a playful spark to them despite the medium. The palette skewed heavily dark, like a Caravaggio, though with greater warmth to the colors, themselves favoring shades of olive and plum. It suited the founder of the Magnus Institute, he decided; foreboding, yet inviting, not unlike being guided by a hand on the small of one's back.

Jon's gaze was drawn inexorably back to those vivid, smirking eyes. He could almost imagine a gleam of satisfaction to them as he shivered from a sudden chill. It ran up his spine—the metaphorical hand tracing its resting place back to the source?—and prickled at the back of his neck. The memory of Georgie lingering there with smiling lips surged forward.

He slapped a hand over the spot, heart pounding at the phantom sensation. He wanted so desperately to turn around, to make sure no one was behind him, but to do so would mean looking away from those damn _eyes_. He _needed_ to understand the strange painting more than he needed to soothe his nerves.

Jonah's eyes raked over him without needing to move. He felt it as if it was a physical touch, innumerable fingers exploring the secrets of his flesh. As the they reached his folds, he was struck with the image of his first boyfriend kneeling between his legs, working his tongue in as deep as it could go.

(They'd broken up soon after—no amount of skill could make up for the fact that he'd idolised Jon as a man who could get pregnant, the focal point of his dirty talk to a disconcerting degree.)

Jon tried to think of something else, but the memories of past flings were insistent. Georgie played with nipple piercings he no longer wore, a drunk upperclassman breathed filthy promises in his ear, his clit was pinched between two vibrators—

"Jonathan Sims?"

This time he did turn, grateful that his _equipment_ allowed for his arousal to go unobserved. "Ah, y-yes?"

"Elias Bouchard. I'll be conducting the interview."

He blinked, adjusting his glasses to buy time. "But... you're the head of the institute! I... that is...."

A smile as silky as his voice slid onto his face. "Unconventional, yes, but I was _very_ impressed with what I saw. Now then, if there are no other concerns...?"

Fantasies still gripped his flesh, but he had faith in his willpower to overcome them. "No, not at all!"

A beckoning gesture. "My office is right this way. _Come._ "

Jon did.


	2. Corruption

**The Crawling Rot**

It was ~~n't~~ a mistake to go back for the tape recorder.

And now he would "meet [his] crimson fate".

 _"_ **Archivist... do you hear our song?** "

He thought he might. But he doubted it would be a good idea to say so. Especially when worms were crawling over his face, their musty scent almost as nauseating as the knowledge that he was about to be eaten alive. Instead he struggled for freedom from the wall—in his efforts to get away, he'd twisted his ankle and fallen face-first through the hole made by the shelf. With his arms pinned to his sides and a leg unable to bear his weight, his chances of breaking it further were low.

 _"_ **No matter.... You don't need to in order to atone for my murdered children.** "

Jon began to argue, only to choke on a foul-tasting worm. Prentiss let out a hiss and fell upon him, more like wet sack than a human body. Before he could try to kick her unnaturally light body away, the sharp burn of a needle pierced his back.

The venom worked quickly. Or maybe it didn't. He was hardly counting the seconds when his limbs were going insensate.

Prentiss made a pleased sound and tore away the worm-eaten remnants of his trousers. She didn't seem surprised by what she saw, merely pawing through his curls until her spongy flesh found his cunt. She drew back, and there came a rustling noise and a groan.

 _What's happening?!_ He couldn't see. He _couldn't see._ He _needed_ to _see_ what she was doing—!

Something firm prodded him.

 _...Is that what delayed her attack? Waiting for a-a_ dildo _to ship?_ Were it not for the paralytic toxin, he would have _words_ for her regarding her capacity for proper prioritization. It was no wonder she was drawn to Martin; birds of a feather.

(Martin, whom he would never see again.)

She pushed in.

* * *

Just as the agony of penetration had caused him to pass out, so did its resurgence stir him. But she hadn't moved. Wasn't moving.

The... _thing_... inside him was.

Pulsing.

Swelling.

For a moment he was convinced that it was a pear of anguish—was desperate to argue that _actually, popular accounts of its use are not credible in any fashion_ , as if that would stop her—but then the swell traveled deeper. Settled in his womb.

 _Eggs,_ he thought hysterically, _She's laying eggs in me._ _Oh, god._

" **One for each dead, Archivist** ," she cooed, " **And your flesh to make them strong.** "

_And eaten from the inside-out. Shit, shit, shit—_

She was still talking, but a strange smell was rising over the scent of decay. He felt light-headed.

So very light-headed.

_I could do with a lie-down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Huehuehue, what if "crimson fate" meant menstrual sex?  
> Prompt: No watersports  
> Me: ...Better not risk it *kicks sod*


End file.
